


Dark Passengers

by allonym



Category: Dexter (TV), Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonym/pseuds/allonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two monsters stalk the streets of Miami. How will the Doctor deal with them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those not familar with the show Dexter, he's a blood splatter expert with the Miami Police Department. He is also a serial killer who channels his urge to kill by hunting down fellow serial killers.
> 
> The story occurs shortly after the end of season 2 of Dexter and includes spoilers for both season 1 and 2. For the Doctor it is somewhere between The Waters of Mars and the End of Time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: While there is no on-screen violence, this chapter includes a graphic crime scene involving a murdered child.

“Dexter, there’s a crime scene downtown in Oaktown Park. It’s a bad one.” His foster sister, Detective Debra Morgan, sounded grim. Given the sheer number of violent murders in Miami every year, if Deb said it was a bad one, then the murder was either particularly bizarre, or there was something special about the victim. Or victims.

Either way, it drew Dexter’s interest. His Dark Passenger stirred sleepily. It wasn’t hungry — it was only two nights ago that he put down a certain nursing home director who’d been controlling costs by bumping off his more expensive patients — but it also never turned down a challenge.

“I’m on it. Just let me drop off these donuts and grab my kit.” At the mention of donuts, Deb made a quick detour on her way to the door to grab a jelly donut from the half-empty box Dexter was carrying through the bull pen. Her new partner, Joey Quinn, grabbed one as well, and followed her out.

Dexter placed the box with the remaining donuts in the tiny kitchen. Bringing donuts was one of many tricks Dexter used to distract his colleagues from the fact they were working alongside a monster. Luckily for him, the Miami homicide department tended to overlook the less obvious answers. He grabbed his blood splatter kit from the lab and headed for his car.

Oaktown Park had no oaks, or town. It really wasn’t much of a park either, just a patch of dying grass in the middle of the city, edged with some scraggly palm trees. A basketball court with crumbling pavement sat next to an old swing set and slide. The crime scene tape blocked off the paved area next to the playground equipment. Uniformed police officers kept the crowd of a couple dozen curious onlookers at bay. Dexter flashed his forensics I.D. at the patrol officer and ducked under the tape.

Deb and Quinn were already there, watching Vince Masuka examine the body. Deb had been right, it was a bad one. Children were always hard, and this girl, who appeared no more than twelve, had a look of terror frozen on her face, her eyes staring blindly, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her flower print dress was shredded, and her body cavity had been sliced open and emptied. All her internal organs were gone, except the heart.

Whoever did this had won Dexter’s full attention. Any killer was his rightful prey, but child killers always got moved to the front of the line.

“Carla Sanchez, age 11. Estimated time of death, between one to two hours ago,” said Masuka, his usually excited voice subdued. The morning sun glinted off his bald head. He sighed and slowly stood up, pushing his glasses up. “Cause of death, evisceration.”

“No fucking kidding,” said Deb.

Dexter looked at the pavement around the periphery of the body and then on the ground further out. “No visible blood splatter,” he said. The obvious conclusion was the girl had been killed elsewhere and dumped here, but something scratching in his back brain told him that it wasn’t that simple. He was about to take a closer look when Sergeant Angel Baptista approached, accompanied by a skinny man talking non-stop in a British accent.

“Well, I’m actually more of a general specialist. That is, I generally specialize in odd cases, which don’t fit into neat categories. If they did, they wouldn’t be odd then, would they? Ah, hello everyone!” The newcomer must be roasting in his pinstriped suit and tie. White sneakers with red laces and a crop of wild hair completed the oddball picture. He smiled genially at the group.

Angel introduced the man with a faint air of surprise. “This is Doctor John Smith of the British Intelligence Service. He believes he can help the investigation.”

“I’m called the Doctor,” the man said.

Dexter examined him carefully. He appeared harmless, with a general geeky, but friendly, aura. Of course, the same description would also fit Dexter.

Usually.

Some monsters liked to put on a show, leaving bodies in playgrounds and reveling in the attention they received. Dexter was not one of them. He preferred to work in the shadows, and his playmates ended up in neat little packages wrapped in biodegradable trash bags, traveling the Gulf Stream.

But whoever killed this little girl wasn’t worried about stepping into the light. He might even be cocky enough to insert himself in the middle of the investigation of his crimes.

“Wait a minute,” said Quinn, his New York accent even more pronounced than usual. “What the hell is British Intelligence doing here? When the victim less than three hours cold? What’d you do, hop on the Concord?”

“Nothing so slow,” the man said with a grin. “But I’m actually here on vacation — searching for the perfect banana daiquiri, in fact. But I overheard those two ladies talking about the crime, and it sounded similar to. . .a case I worked on, a long time ago.”

The two ladies he indicated were huddled on a park bench, with a female patrol officer offering comfort. Sergeant Baptista frowned at the sight.

“Those two women are the little girl’s mother and aunt, and they don’t speak any English,” he said. “I talked with them myself.”

“I, on the other hand, am fluent in Spanish. Even Cuban Spanish, which requires a facile tongue. In fact, I’m good at all languages.”

Quinn laughed. “Yeah, maybe you should learn American, then.”

“Or Dexter can translate; he’s got experience with British tongues, “said Masuka, laughing at his own joke. He was quickly silenced by Deb’s punch to the arm.

Masuka was referring to Lila, a British woman who Dexter had a brief affair with earlier that summer. She was the only living person who knew his secret, and she accepted him as he was, monster and all.

She was also crazier than a loon, and had burned a police detective alive. Dexter might’ve forgiven that, given she was trying to protect him, but then she kidnapped his girlfriend Rita’s children and locked them in a burning apartment. Dexter had gotten them out safely, but Lila remained near the top of his “to do” list anyway. Unfortunately, she was currently living in Paris — easy enough to trace, but logistically hard to reach without getting caught. And as his foster father Harry had taught him, the number one rule was ‘Don’t get caught.’

“Oh, I can speak American, no problem,” said the Doctor, suddenly shifting to a bland Midwestern accent. “But then, crisps would be chips and chips would be fries and I’d be taking the elevator one story up to the second floor and talking on cell phone and who knows what chaos would result?” He smiled all around as if offering a treat.

“Anyway,” he continued, shifting back to his British accent, suddenly serious, “shall we take a look at the girl?”

As if a spell had been broken, everyone’s attention shifted to the body. The detectives moved to the side as Dexter stepped forward, bringing his kit. He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and snapped them on, and then crouched next to the girl.

“Interior organs removed except the heart, no blade marks, skin surrounding the abdomen torn, blood in the body cavity appears to have seeped from surrounding tissue, no other wounds. No visible blood splatter around the body,” he said in his most clinical tone. He was careful to keep any hint of admiration out of his voice, any hint that he was intrigued by his fellow monster’s technique.

“So somebody must’ve dumped her? No way anyone could’ve done this without making a mess,” said Deb.

Dexter lifted her left arm, examining the skin underneath. Pieces of gravel fell from the skin, leaving slight dimple marks, as if they had been pressed in with force. Similar gravel littered the pavement around the body. As he gently placed the arm back down, he was distracted by the braided friendship bracelet around her wrist.

Astor, his girlfriend’s daughter, had made him a bracelet like that. She was only a few years younger than this girl. His clinical admiration of the killer’s technique evaporated.

He examined the other arm and found similar gravel marks. In the background he could hear Dr. Smith chatting with Masuka, talking animatedly about the subject of Masuka’s article on DNA reconstruction techniques, which he was planning to submit to Forensics Quarterly. Yet at the same time he could feel the stranger’s full attention on him. Interesting.

He opened up his kit and found a bottle of luminol, spraying the ground around the body. He pulled out his UV light and shone it on the ground. The bright sunlight made the patterns hard to see, but they were there.

“We got blood. Arterial spurts, I’d say from the severed aorta. Judging by the quantity, it was shut down almost immediately.” Dexter looked more carefully at the arc of the splatter, extending about two feet from the body. Whoever had cleaned it up had done a thorough job. He didn’t see any stray droplets, or any drops at all. The pattern of the wiped up blood was interesting — it was feathered, brushed all in the same direction.

Quinn spoke impatiently. “So you’re saying she wasn’t dumped? That she was killed right here, between six and seven in the morning? How can that be? What was she doing here anyway?’

“She was going to her uncle’s _mercado._ She helps out there during the summer,” said Baptista.

“And no witnesses?” ask Deb.

“Quiet time of day. Drug dealers have gone to bed, most day workers are still getting up.”

Whatever had done this must have worked quickly. Dexter knew exactly how long it took to dismantle a body. _(Although not one this small. Never ever one this small.)_ Organs were the easy part, but it was still an accomplishment to get it done with so little mess.

He looked at the feathered blood splatter again.

“I think the blood might have been licked clean,” he said.

That got everyone’s attention, including that of the British doctor. He quickly crouched next to Dexter, his feet flat on the ground, and put on a pair of glasses. He leaned far forward to examine the blood traces. For a moment, Dexter thought he might have to remind the man not to touch anything without gloves, but Dr. Smith just held the pose, breathing slowly.

No, not breathing. Inhaling. Nothing as obvious as a sniff, but the man was slowly drawing the air from the scene in through his nose and slightly open mouth.

Perhaps trying to re-create the thrill of his earlier kill? While surrounded by the police? This doctor was not what he seemed. Dexter could see it, the mask of geniality that concealed a darker purpose. He should, since he practiced such a mask every moment of the day.

But that wasn’t enough for him to take action, not nearly enough. He had to make sure, absolute certain of the man’s guilt. That was the second rule Harry had taught him.

“Excuse me, Doctor Smith,” he said, motioning the man back. Dexter pulled out a cotton swab out of his kit and prepared it with a solution, and then reached across the other man to dab it along the blood splatter. He sealed it in its tube and then pulled out another swab to repeat the process.

“Just call me the Doctor. And you are?”

“Dexter Morgan. Call me Dexter. Sorry I can’t shake hands,” he replied with a friendly smile.

“I quite understand. So, what are you planning to do with those samples?” he asked curiously. Dexter now had five tubes prepared and secured in his kit.

“DNA analysis. Double-check that the blood is all from the girl, and see if there is any other DNA present. If I’m right about the licking, we might be able to pin down the perpetrator.”

“Good, good. Most excellent. Now, if I might have that last sample, then I can crosscheck it with my own equipment. . .” He plucked the last tube from Dexter’s hands and stood up.

Dexter was upright before the man had finished his motion and grasped the tube between his forefinger and thumb, right below the other man’s hold. He saw a flash of surprise in the Doctor’s face. Dexter could move very quickly when he needed to.

“Sorry, Doctor. I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said.

A pair of friendly brown eyes looked into his, gazing from an honest open face. An aura of trustworthiness radiated from the man; Dexter could almost feel it, like a breeze blowing past him. But not quite touching.

“Aw, come now, Dexter. No offense intended. Standard procedure, independent verification. Each parts supporting the other.” The Doctor tugged at the tube, but Dexter held fast.

“Dexter, what the fuck are you doing?” asked Deb.

Dexter looked at her, confused. She stared at him as if he were the one acting strange. Not only her, but Masuka, Quinn, and Angel, all looking at him as if he were doing something wrong.

His defenses flared. Being at the center of attention, that was dangerous. He was supposed to be in the background, the geeky lab rat at the fringes of the investigation. Yet…

Yet there was something very wrong here. Deb, maybe he could see Deb being distracted by the stranger’s pretty face. Men had always been her weak spot. And Masuka might trust anyone who was smart enough to flatter his forensics work.

But Quinn, despite his lowbrow intellect, had shown excellent police instincts, good enough that Dexter kept a weather eye out for him. And Angel Baptista had been working way too many years on the force to fall for this Doctor’s sleight of hand. Yet both of them looked to be siding against Dexter.

This Doctor was good.

But then so was Dexter. He gave the Deb his own version of an open, trustworthy face.

“I was just thinking that the Doctor should come back to the station with us. It would give us a chance to double-check his credentials before we start releasing evidence to him.”

His four colleagues blinked at that, as if it had never occurred to them. Dexter smiled at the Doctor and pulled at the tube. This time the Doctor let go.

“No offense intended, Doctor. Standard procedure, independent verification. “

The Doctor considered him a moment, and then gave a big grin. “Of course, of course. More than happy to oblige. How do we get there?”

Dexter finished packing up his kit. “Why don’t you ride with me?”

“Brilliant!” replied the Doctor. “Allons-y!"


	2. Chapter 2

Dexter’s car swooped down the on-ramp and slid across three lines of traffic, provoking a chorus of honking horns and a series of one-fingered salutes. Dexter waved back cheerfully and then accelerated to weave in and out of traffic.

“You know,” said the Doctor mildly, “usually when I’m in a vehicle that moves like this, I’m either being chased or I’m chasing something.”

“Welcome to Miami, Doctor,” said Dexter. He enjoyed Miami traffic. It was a display of human nature at its most primal. “So how long have you been in town?”

“Oh, not long. I was trying to find a little bar I remembered, from way back. Seems to be a shopping mall now. Did I mention I was searching for the perfect banana daiquiri? I love bananas! Good source of potassium,” he said.

“They’re also the perfect driving food,” responded Dexter, keeping one hand on the wheel as he leaned over to slide out his mini cooler from between the seats. He opened it one handedly and pulled out a banana, offering it to the Doctor.

“Splendid!” said the Doctor, peeling the banana and taking a huge bite. “Mwo mwiff i a ood mwamwama!”

“Glad you like it. So where’ve you searched so far?” asked Dexter.

The Doctor finished the last bite and continued speaking. “All over the place. There’s lots of places with good bananas — do you mind if I have another?” At Dexter’s assent, the Doctor pulled out another banana. This time he waited to swallow before continuing.

“And tons of places with excellent rum. But to find both in the same place, with someone knowledgeable enough to add the right mixers and blend it just right…well so far that’s been impossible.”

The Doctor launched into a monologue describing all the places he tried and what each of them did wrong. Dexter let the patter flow unimpeded this time. Clearly, the Doctor wasn’t going to answer any questions about exactly where he came from and how he arrived. Dexter would dearly like to trace the Doctor’s past travels and see if there were a pattern of bodies left behind, but it looked like he’d have to find that information some other way. Much of what the Doctor spouted was pure nonsense, but there was an underlying structure to it that tugged at Dexter’s attention.

“Of course, I’m a pretty good mixologist myself. Even the King of France said so, although I doubt he remembered the conversation come morning. The French do know how to party, you have to give them that…”

“Which King of France?” asked Dexter.

“Pardon?”

“Which King of France complimented your bartending skills?” asked Dexter.

The Doctor paused, and Dexter had the impression that he wasn’t used to people paying close attention to his chatter.

“Oh, it was one of the Louis, they had so many. He wasn’t my favorite Louis, though. That would be Louis Armstrong. Spent Marti Gras with him once, in New Orleans — now that was a party. . .”

Interesting. The obvious conclusion was that the Doctor was either conducting an elaborate practical joke, or he was crazy. However, Dexter had met both practical jokers and people with a poor sense of reality, and the Doctor didn’t seem to resemble either.

Not that it really mattered for Dexter’s purposes. Whether he was lying, crazy or telling the absolute truth, this Doctor had some connection to Carla Sanchez’s death. Dexter was going to stick close until he figured out what it was.

By the time they reached the police station, the Doctor had finally stopped talking. Dexter watched him carefully as they walked through the parking lot towards the station, ready to grab him if he decided to make a run for it. But the other man entered the building cheerfully enough, looking around with interest. At the security desk he pulled out a leather wallet with his identification to obtain a visitor’s pass.

Dexter looked at his identification curiously. It seemed genuine enough. But. . .

“Unified Intelligence Taskforce? I thought Angel said you were with British Intelligence?”

“Oh, I’m associated with the British contingent of UNIT. Scientific advisor, not military. But I’m fairly sure they’ll vouch for me,” said the Doctor.

“Fairly sure?”

“Depends on how long it’s been since I last saved the planet. Hard to keep track sometimes. Oo! You have a little shop!” He was smiling with delight at the little canteen run by the Miami Fraternal Order of Police, which also sold T-shirts and coffee mugs with the police logo on them.

“You can stop by on your way out, Doctor. I expect that they’re waiting for you upstairs.” Hard to tell how much of the Doctor’s scatterbrained behavior was genuine, and how much it was a deliberate distraction. It was, in its own way, as effective a disguise as Dexter’s own bland personality.

When they stepped off the elevator and walked into the homicide division, Angel and Masuka were already there, talking with Lieutenant Maria LaGuerta, the division head. She had on her best “public relations” face as she greeted the Doctor.

“We’re honored to have your help, Dr. Smith,” she said. “We need to get this case solved as soon as possible. So far we’ve been able to keep the details out of the media, but that won’t last long.”

“And you want to stop the killer before anyone else dies,” said the Doctor mildly.

“Yes, of course,” she answered.

“Well, then, you can turn over one of the DNA samples to me as soon as possible, and I should have things sorted by tomorrow,” said the Doctor.

His voice inflection had changed, and once again Dexter observed an aura of trustworthiness surrounding the man. Lieutenant LaGuerta visibly relaxed, as if reassured that the Doctor would take care of everything. Dexter spoke up quickly before she could speak.

“We’d be happy to do so as soon as we get the verification from UNIT,” he said.

“Of course! Happy to oblige. Do you have a videophone handy?” asked the Doctor.

Angel laughed at that. “We’re lucky we can afford regular phones. Hell, we’re lucky we can afford toilet paper.”

“You can use my computer,” said Masuka. “It has videochat capability. Um, just give me a minute to clean some stuff up. . .” He scurried over toward the forensics lab.

LaGuerta looked at Angel. “Do I want to know?”

“Absolutely not,” replied Angel.

Masuka returned and the whole group followed him into the cramped forensics lab. The videoconference program was already opened. LaGuerta nodded at Dexter and gestured him toward the computer. He looked up UNIT’s general number and entered it in.

An audiolink connected almost immediately. “UNIT headquarters, New York division.”

The Doctor leaned forward to speak quietly in Dexter ear. “Tell them it’s a code nine, but there’s no immediate danger.”

Dexter spoke toward the computer microphone. “This is Dexter Morgan, with the Miami Police Department. We’re calling to confirm the identity of a Dr. John Smith. He’s says to tell you that it’s a code nine, but there’s no immediate danger.”

“One moment.”

A few seconds later the video feed loaded up and a dark-skinned woman in a uniform with a red beret appeared.

“Listen, Mr. Sexystud42, if this is some sort of a joke. . .”

For the first time Dexter noticed the call name on the video account. Masuka laughed nervously.

“Captain Magambo! Good to see you,” said the Doctor, leaning forward over Dexter’s shoulder into the video pick-up. “No, there’s no joke. I just need you to tell the good people of the Miami police department that they can release some DNA samples to me.

“Doctor? What’s the threat level? Is the planet in danger? I can have a squad in Miami in three hours.”

“No, no, no. No squads. No guns. There’s just a spot of localized activity, but I should have it sorted very quickly,” said the Doctor. “I just need some cooperation from the local police.”

Captain Magambo focused in on Dexter. “Are you in charge there?”

Dexter shook his head and vacated the computer chair. After some awkward shuffling in the tight space, LaGuerta took his spot.

“I’m Lieutenant Maria LaGeurta, Miami Homocide,” she said.

“Lieutenant, I strongly recommend that you help the Doctor in any way that he asks, no matter how odd his requests. Also, keep out of his way — he’ll solve your problem, but he’s likely to leave a mess as well,” she said. “Magambo out.” The videofeed closed down.

“Well, I hope that’s clear enough!” said the Doctor. “Now, how about those samples?”

Dexter ended up giving the Doctor three of the six samples he had collected, as well as three samples of the girl’s blood to use as a crosscheck. The Doctor somehow tucked them all into the pockets of his jacket.

“Merci bien! I’ll just be off, then,” said the Doctor.

“You’ll let us know if you find the killer?” asked Angel.

“Of course, of course,” replied the Doctor unconvincingly. For one thing, he hadn’t gotten any of their contact information.

“Can I give you a ride back to your hotel?” asked Dexter.

“No thank you, really,” said the Doctor over his shoulder as he headed toward the elevator.

As soon as he was out of sight, Dexter turned to Angel. “Could you let the Lieutenant know that I’m taking a personal day?”

Angel looked at him carefully, and then nodded. “Be careful, Dexter.”

Dexter ran over to Deb’s desk and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out her purse. He swapped his car keys for hers and then put the purse back, slamming the drawer shut. He ran down the hall to the stairway, and launched himself down the stairs, grabbing the rail and swinging down from landing to landing.

As he exited through the emergency door at the bottom, he looked around and saw the Doctor, conspicuous in his brown suit, exiting the main door. Dexter scanned the parking lot for Deb’s car and spotted it just as she and Quinn arrived at the station in Quinn’s vehicle.

“Deb, I’m borrowing your car. I left my keys in your purse if you need a ride.”

“What the fuck?” she said, annoyed.

“Gotta run, I’ll explain later!” he said, running for her car. He started it up and drove slowly through the parking lot, watching the Doctor head for the main road. He reached the parking lot exit just as the Doctor managed to flag down a cab.

Dexter had plenty of experience following cars through the streets of Miami. He slid in and out of traffic without thinking, distracted by the memory of the videocall to UNIT. Either the Doctor was perpetrating a very elaborate hoax, or there was something big going on here. Apparently the Doctor’s remark about saving the planet wasn’t as off-hand as it sounded.

The trouble was, even if it were all true, it still didn’t eliminate the Doctor as Carla Sanchez’s killer. Even if he were some sort of covert time-traveling planet-saving superhero, it didn’t prevent him from also being a murderer. He was clearly something of a loose cannon with no real oversight. He wouldn’t be the first person to commit both good and evil deeds.

Dexter’s thoughts were still spinning as the taxi pulled over to a corner lot, empty except for a small blue shed. He kept driving down half a block and then pulled into a parking space in front of a boarded up store. He watched carefully in his review mirror as the Doctor exited the taxi and then walked up to the blue shed, taking out a key and opening. What could he have stored in there?

Then the Doctor stepped into the shed and closed the door behind him. Interesting. Dexter automatically zoned into surveillance mode. Another thing he was very experienced at.

Unfortunately, though, not in Deb’s car, which closely resembled a rolling garbage can. While following the taxi he was able to block out all the food wrappers and other trash, but now they started to grate on his nerves. The smell of cigarettes didn’t help either — Deb had starting smoking again after Lundy left. Although he knew that she really missed him, the departure of Special Agent Lundy was a big relief to Dexter. Having the nation’s best serial killer hunter date his sister had been awkward in the extreme.

No food in her car either, unless he counted a half-eaten burger. It was getting close to lunch time, and Dexter did not like to miss meals. Maybe he should just go investigate?

No, best to wait. It couldn’t be much longer. How long could a man stay inside an unairconditioned shed in the middle of Miami summer anyway?


	3. Chapter 3

Turned out the Doctor could stay longer in the blue shed than Dexter could wait in Deb’s car. It was the thought of a second exit that finally got him. What if the shed had a false back, like a magician’s cabinet? Or an escape tunnel? What if he had been sitting here for an hour, watching an empty shed while the Doctor had run away laughing?

So finally he got out of the car and walked down to the corner lot. When he got closer to the blue shed, he saw it was labeled “Police Box” — some sort of mobile crime unit? He walked all around it, tapping the sides. The main door seemed like the only entrance. The lock was the simplest type of Yale lock; he could probably open it in about ten seconds.

On the other hand, if the Doctor was still inside, he’d not take kindly to Dexter breaking in. Feeling foolish, he knocked on the door. He was just about ready to try picking the lock when the door opened and the Doctor stuck his head out.

“Hello, Dexter,” he said.

“Hello, Doctor,” Dexter replied. He hadn’t really planned for what would happen if the Doctor was still in there.

“What do you want?” said the Doctor.

“I came to see if I could help.” Well, that was true as far as it went.

“If I said no, would you go away?” The Doctor did not sound particularly hopeful.

“No.”

The Doctor sighed. “Well, you might as well come in, then.” He stepped back and opened the door.

The first thing Dexter noticed was that the box was actually air conditioned. Also, it was…

“Yes, it’s bigger on the inside,” said the Doctor.

“I noticed — how does it do that?”

“Trans-dimensional engineering. It’s a bit complicated. . .” The Doctor’s voice trailed off unencouragingly.

“Well, that explains how you time travel, then,” said Dexter, turning in a slow circle to observe the entire room. A huge. . .console? sat in the middle, with an odd variety of switches, knobs and gauges. A glass tower reached up to the high ceiling, supported by beams of. . . it looked like coral.

“What do you mean, time travel?” asked the Doctor.

“Well, if this. . . ship? can alter itself in three dimensions, stands to reason it can also do it in four dimensions,” said Dexter, placing a hand on a coral beam.

“But how did you know I time travel? Did UNIT send a report?”

“You told me. There hasn’t been a King of France for more than two hundred years.” Dexter looked at the coral beam more closely. “Is it alive?”

“Yes, she is. She’s called the TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimension In Space. I don’t think she knows what to think of you yet.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Dexter. After all, he might possibly have to kill her master.

He felt an angry buzzing in his bones and quickly tried to project his further thoughts. Only if he’s guilty. Only if he killed that little girl. If he’s innocent, the Doctor had nothing to fear from him. Dexter only hunted the guilty. The buzzing subsiding into a vague feeling of grumpiness.

“Well that explains one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?” asked the Doctor.

“How you were planning on analyzing the samples. It seemed weird that you took a DNA analyzer on a vacation. I assume there’s a lab around here somewhere?”

The Doctor looked at him quizzically. “You’re taking this all very calmly.”

Damn. Dexter had gotten so used to faking emotion that he forgot that his natural reactions weren’t like most people’s. What was he supposed to be doing? Quaking with fear? Crying with delight? Shock, maybe. He could do shock.

“It’s overwhelming,” he said. “A bit of a shock.”

“Ah, well. You’re welcome to step back outside. . .”

“No. I’ll be fine. So what did you do with the samples, Doctor?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.” The Doctor let him through the doorway and down a confusing series of corridors and into a well-lit room with three good-sized lab benches. They were covered with equipment that looked like a combination of a kid’s magic science kit and a mad scientist’s nightmare.

The Doctor let him to the end of one of the benches, which had a clear globe about the size of a soccer ball floating a few inches over a stand supporting a glowing blue ring. Inside the globe was a swirling yellow light.

“In this globe, I’m attempting to culture all the variations of the basal cells from the DNA samples you gave me. It’s a bit tricky because the DNA isn’t human. In fact, it doesn’t belong on Earth at all. There was also an alien enzyme in the sample, I was very lucky to extract any of the DNA at all. Of course, it helps that I’m brilliant.” The Doctor paused as if waiting for Dexter to say something.

Right, human interaction. Some days it was more work than others. “Yes, I can see how it would,” said Dexter, looking closely at the swirling energy in the globe.

Must have been the right response, because the Doctor continued. “I’m afraid by the time the police lab processes the samples, they’ll be totally degraded. You’ll probably be blamed for messing up the prep. I’m sorry.”

“Not a problem. My reputation will survive. So this enzyme, was that why there were no blade marks? Was that how the killer was able to hollow out the body so quickly, and with so little mess?”

“Oh, you are a clever one! Yes, I believe so. The DNA belongs to a class of shapeshifters. The last one I met was a plasmivore, feeding on blood,” said the Doctor.

“Like a vampire?”

“Sort of, except she used a bendy straw. But this killer is different; it went for the internal organs. Just the soft tissues, leaving behind all the pure muscle, including the heart. Different feeding strategy that allows it to co-exist with the plasmivores. It extrudes an enzyme that helps it absorb the internal organs. But like the plasmivore, this one — a viscerivore — can assimilate alien DNA and use it to change shape,” said the Doctor.

“So you’re saying it could look like anyone?”

“Exactly.

Frustrating. Dexter was very good at tracking down killers, but shape-shifting aliens might be too much for even him. Assuming the Doctor was telling the truth.

But once again, for Dexter’s purpose, it didn’t matter whether the Doctor was telling the truth. Either the Doctor was an alien hunter extraordinaire who would lead Dexter to the killer, or he was the killer himself. In both cases, Dexter just needed to stick to the Doctor like glue.

“So how do we find it?” asked Dexter.

“We don’t find. I find it. The last thing I need is to get the police involved. Shoot first, ask questions later, isn’t that your motto?”

“Not my motto, Doctor. I’m not a police officer, I’m a tech. A scientist. They don’t issue me a gun. I don’t even like guns.”

Which was the truth. Guns were too impersonal a way of killing. He’d learned that early, when Harry tried to help him control his urges by hunting. He needed to be up close, to feel the blade slice into flesh, to smell the fresh blood as it spurted from the body. Only then was his Dark Passenger content.

The Doctor smiled. “Ah, a man after my own heart!”

Dexter smiled back. “I’m also pretty resourceful, and I know Miami well. I’m sure I can help.”

The Doctor sighed. “Well, I supposed an extra pair of hands would be useful. It’s going to be tricky capturing a viscerivore in the middle of a busy city without endangering bystanders. What I need is a really good broad-spectrum tranquilizer, but I’ve checked the TARDIS stores and everything she has is too species specific.”

“Would M99 work?” asked Dexter.

“What’s M99?”

“A large animal tranquilizer. A combination of etorphine hydrochloride and acetylpromazine. The authorities use it sometimes to move dangerous animals that get too close to human habitation.”

The Doctor’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes, that would be perfect! Do you think you can find me some?”

Dexter pictured the row of syringes, hidden in the false bottom of the trunk in his closet. “I could probably mange to get my hands on some. It’s strictly controlled, but I do have some contacts in the veterinary world.” Namely a Dr. Patrick Bateman, aka Dexter Morgan.

“Good, good. The cells won’t be ready for at least another four hours, can you get it by then?”

“I should be able to. But what do you plan to do with the cells?” asked Dexter.

“Oo, that’s the really clever part,” said the Doctor. He picked up something that looked like a silver video game controller, with a shot glass embedded in the center. “I’ve invented a viscerivore detector. Once the cells are done culturing, I put them in this chamber here, and then use the signature to track down the viscerivore!”

“And then?” asked Dexter.

“Then we tranquilize it, secure it, and have a little chat,” said the Doctor.

Which matched Dexter’s plans exactly. Although he had some further elaborations he didn’t feel ready to share yet.

After reassuring the Doctor he’d be back in a few hours, he drove to the police station and thankfully switched back the cars (luckily Deb was out on a call so he didn’t have to answer any questions) and then drove to his apartment.

The M99 syringes were there, in a case tucked in a pocket of the bag holding his tools. Knives mainly, but also saws, drills, and other handy items. He pulled out the case of syringes and put it on his bed while he dressed in a fresh outfit.

Army green Henley shirt, tan cargo pants and sturdy boots, to be replaced with an identical set after each kill. Syringes in a side pocket of his pants, leather gloves in another side pocket, and his bag of tools and other necessary items in the trunk compartment of his car.

He was ready for the hunt.


	4. Chapter 4

Tonight was the night. As the shadows lengthened, the Dark Passenger awoke, stretching and scratching and sniffing the air. But it would be patient, because patience was part of the ritual too. Part of Harry’s code, which taught Dexter to always be careful, to always be sure of his playmate’s guilt, and to never get caught. It would be rewarded by that one perfect moment, in a room draped with plastic sheets, where Dexter could at last drop all pretences, could at last. . .

“Salsa! Now that’s a fun dance. Pedro Gomez taught me to salsa. I won first place once, in a dance contest in Germany. Given that most of the other contestants were German that’s not as impressive as it sounds — they just can’t get the hip sway quite right. Now, if it had been a Schuhplattler contest, that would’ve been impressive. No one slaps and stomps like the Germans. . .” The Doctor continued on without pause.

The bag in the car’s trunk compartment held several rolls of duct tape. Dexter indulged himself in a brief fantasy of applying at least one of those rolls to the Doctor’s mouth.

When Dexter had arrived back at the TARDIS, the cell cultures still needed several hours to develop. So the Doctor had insisted they go for a drive to see the city. They had stopped at a Cuban diner, which Dexter appreciated, although he could’ve done without the lecture on the origins of the Moros y Cristianos he’d been eating. Now they were headed back to the TARDIS and Dexter was discovering just how big a part silence played in his usual preparations.

*Beep beep*

Dexter’s cell phone chimed. He looked at the caller’s name — it was Rita. He flipped it open.

“Hey, you,” he said.

Her soft voice sounded anxious. “Dexter, could you pick up Astor and Cody from day camp? I’ve been waiting all day for the washer repairman. If I leave now, I’ll have to take another day off from work and I really don’t want to do that.”

“Just a sec,” said Dexter, covering the phone and turning to the Doctor. “How much time do we have?”

“One hour, fifty-six minutes,” said the Doctor.

Dexter calculated travel times. They should be able to make it.

“I’m on it,” he said to Rita.

“Thank you, Dexter, you’re a lifesaver,” she replied, sounding relieved.

Dexter snapped his phone shut. “Sorry, Doctor, need to make a detour.” He accelerated, mentally mapping out the fastest route. When they arrived at the YMCA, Astor and Cody were waiting out front with one of the camp counselors. It was one minute to closing and they were the last ones there.

As Dexter came out of the car, Cody ran up and launched himself. “Dexter!”

Dexter grabbed him and swung him around. “Hey there cowboy. How was camp?”

“Cool! I made you something.”Cody ran back to his sister and started rummaging through the backpack he left there. Dexter followed more sedately and took a clipboard from the counselor, signing the kids out. He smiled at Astor, who was working at looking much more grown up than her little brother.

“I got my expert swimmers badge today,” she said.

Dexter grinned at her. “Oh good! Now I know who I’ll throw into the water next time we’re sailing and the wind blows my hat off.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, and she started giggling.

Kids were so much less complicated than adults. He’d quickly learned the right responses to give to their different moods. When he was with Rita’s kids, they made it easy for him to pretend to feel happiness.

Cody had pulled his prize from his backpack. “Here you go, Dexter. It’s a lanyard key chain. I made it myself.”

Dexter pulled out his keys and threaded the new keychain on. “Perfect!” he said. “Just what I needed. Thank you, Cody.” He gave him another hug.

“Who’s that?” asked Astor. Dexter turned around and saw the Doctor had gotten out of the car and was standing there, hands in his pockets.

“Astor, Cody, let me introduce you to a friend of mine. His name’s Doctor John Smith. He likes to be called the Doctor.”

“Doctor? Are you sick?” Cody looked at Dexter worriedly.

“Naw, your dad’s fine. I’m not that kind of doctor. I’m just helping him out with a police case,” said the Doctor.

“He’s not my dad. My dad’s dead,” said Cody solemnly.

“Dexter’s just Dexter,” chimed in Astor.

Dexter pulled himself to attention and then gave a little bow, attempting to copy the Doctor’s British accent. “And right now, Dexter is your chauffeur. Master Cody, Miss Astor, please enter the vehicle. Wherever shall I convey you today? Buckingham Palace?”

Astor giggled again. “Yes, please.”

As they drove to Astor and Cody’s house, Dexter proceeded to give them an imaginary tour of London. The Doctor soon broke in with corrections and elaborations about famous people and events.

When they reached the house, the washer repairman was just leaving. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bennett. There’s nothing I can do. I’m afraid it needs to be replaced.”

“Darn it,” she said. “I should’ve known. The warranty just expired.”

“Perhaps I could have a look-see,” said the Doctor. Soon the Doctor was in the laundry room, accompanied by a high-pitched buzzing, and Dexter was talking to Rita as she fixed dinner in the kitchen while the kids watched a video.

“You’re both welcome to stay for dinner,” she said. “We’re having pot roast.”

“Sounds wonderful, but the Doctor and I need to get back to work,” said Dexter. Then he spotted a tinfoil wrapped loaf on the counter. “But I bet you the Doctor wouldn’t mind some banana bread for the road.”

“All fixed!” said the Doctor, coming in from the laundry room. “Good as new. Better than new, in fact. I made a few adjustments to improve its energy efficiency and water use.”

Rita smiled. “Thank you so much, Doctor.” She picked the loaf off the counter and offered it to him. “This is a small enough repayment, but won’t you take this back to your hotel for a snack?”

“Oh, no need for payment, really.” The Doctor held the foil-wrapped loaf to his face and sniffed. “Banana bread! Homemade! Oh how marvelous. Thank you, Rita.”

“My pleasure.” Rita turned to Dexter. “Do you think you could stop by, when you’re done with your case tonight?”

“I’ll try, but it will probably be very late, so don’t wait up,” said Dexter, giving her a kiss.

“You’re welcome at any time,” she said.

When they returned to the car, the Doctor was uncharacteristically but thankfully silent. After a few minutes, he finally spoke.

“I hadn’t pegged you as the domestic type.”

Dexter thought back to when he first started dating Rita. He’d been using her as a cover, to avoid the whole “mid-thirties, single white male, keeps to himself” profile. She’d been perfect, because she was so damaged by her ex-husband that he didn’t need to worry about her demanding more than he could give her. Then she grew stronger, and he found himself comfortable in her life. He didn’t love her. He was too dead inside to love anyone. But she was important to him in a way he didn’t realize until he almost lost her over his stupidity with Lila. The fact that Rita had forgiven him, completely and unconditionally, was a mystery and a miracle.

“It wasn’t something I had planned. I was just looking for. . .companionship. But they sort of snuck up on me,” he finally said.

“Yeah, they can do that,” said the Doctor, his voice bleak. He was silent for the rest of the drive.

When they returned to the TARDIS, the Doctor paused outside the door, looking serious.

“Dexter, I think you should just give me the M99 and let me do this on my own,” he said.

“Sorry, Doctor. I’m sticking with you.”

“But it’s going to be dangerous. And I’d rather not have to explain it to Rita if you end up getting hurt.”

“You may find I’m more competent than you think,” said Dexter.

“It’s not a matter of competence. The viscerivore is just so far out of your experience that there’s no way you can really prepare,” said the Doctor.

“That thing killed a child in my city. If you never arrived, I’d still be hunting it, and I’d be at a much bigger disadvantage than I am now. If something happens to me regardless, then that’s my fault, not yours.”

“On your head, then.” The Doctor opened the TARDIS and led the way to the lab. The globe was now completely filled with a steady yellow glow.

“Looks like it’s done cooking! Now let’s see if it works.” He picked up a stopcock from the bench and gently pushed the tapered end into the globe. The surface of the globe gave a little and then sealed around the stopcock like a membrane. The Doctor picked up the viscerivore detector and held the central cup under the open end of the stopcock and turned the valve.

The golden light flowed into the cup like syrup. When it was almost full, the Doctor shut off the valve and then covered the open cup with a stretchy lid that sealed around the edges.

“Here we go! All ready to try out. Last chance — are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Dexter.

“Okay then. Allons-y!”

 

Tracking the viscerivore turned out to be a matter of driving around until the series of ten indicator lights on the Doctor’s detector illuminated. They started at the sad little park where Carla Sanchez was found and drove in ever-widening circles. Finally the first light lit up.

“Keep going straight!” said the Doctor. The second indictor light lit up, and then the third. They drove along until the third light turned off.

“Turn right, now right again!” The third light was back on. “Now left!” The fourth light was now on.

By the time the ninth light turned on, it was starting to get dark. The Doctor told Dexter to park the car. “Best go on foot from here.” Dexter pulled into a bowling alley lot. The Doctor hopped out of the car and turned in place, pausing a moment before dashing away.

Dexter waited a couple of seconds and then exited more carefully. He hung back, watching the Doctor scurry from one side to the next, but not trying to catch up with him. Instead he walked at an oblique angle, holding to the shadows.

The Doctor was getting some curious stares from the couple of customers standing in front of the alley, but no one paid any attention to Dexter. Shielded by a minivan, he put on his leather gloves and pulled out two syringes from their case in the side pants pocket, palming one and putting the other loose in his open pocket.

The Doctor was now at the side of the bowling alley, near some dumpsters. The viscerivore detector was pointed directly at a frightened-looking young woman half in the shadows of the building.

“Looks like we found her, Dexter. Dexter?”

But Dexter had hurried in the other direction, across the front of the bowling alley. As soon as he was out of sight on the other side of the building, he broke into a silent run, down the side and around the back down the narrow space between the building and a chain link fence.

When he rounded the corner to the side where the Doctor was confronting the young woman, his steps slowed and he uncapped the syringe. The Doctor was jabbering on about a shadow proclamation and species designation, but Dexter shut him out. His blood pounded and the darkness called him.

As he had done dozens of times before, Dexter quickly stepped forward, clamped his hand over the woman’s mouth, and plunged the needle into the side of her throat. Two seconds later, she was limp in his arms. He eased her carefully onto the ground.

“Well, that was easier than I thought it would be,” said the Doctor, scratching at his ear. Dexter capped and put away the empty syringe, and pulled out the full one. The Doctor waved a humming blue-tipped probe over the unconscious woman and checked the readings.

“She’s out cold. Good job. No need for a second dose. . .”

His words cut off as Dexter put his hand over the Doctor’s mouth, and plunged the second syringe into his neck. A few seconds later, he was easing the Doctor onto the ground next to the woman.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more violent than previous chapters,and includes a fairly graphic version of Dexter's most famous flashback.

The kill room was ready. Plastic sheets covered the walls and floor, and draped over a long table. A smaller table sat beside it, a gleaming row of knives laid along it. Next to the knives was a framed picture of a proudly smiling 11-year old girl, who would never turn twelve.

But the table was empty — no victim laid out, not yet. Instead, the young woman from the bowling alley, still unconscious, was securely taped to a chair facing the two tables. Behind the closed door of the large walk-in closet, the Doctor was similarly secured.

Moment of truth. Was this woman the child-killing alien the Doctor claimed? Or was the Doctor playing an elaborate game to trick Dexter into killing an innocent woman? The answer would determine who would grace his table tonight.

Dexter donned a ski mask to preserve his identity in case he had to let this woman go, and then pulled out the antagonist for the M99. He usually preferred to let his victims wake up naturally — it was part of the ritual — but he didn’t want to risk the Doctor waking up before he was done with the woman. So he administered the antidote and stepped back, watching her carefully as her eyes fluttered open.

She looked frightened and confused and 100% human.

“What is your name?” he asked in a hard tone that offered no comfort.

“Velina Oquendo,” she said shakily.

“Where were you, this morning?”

“Home, I was home,” she said.

“Where is home?”

She was silent a moment.

" _ **Answer me!**_ ****"

“9438 Flagler Street, Apartment 3B.”

Question after question he asked and she answered, about her family, her friends, her job. No indication that she was alien.

Looked like the Doctor had an appointment with Dexter’s table.

Dexter picked up the picture of Carla Sanchez. It was a photo from the District spelling bee he had found online. She’d won first place and was smiling proudly at the camera. He showed it to Velina.

“Do you know this girl?” he asked.

Her eyes flickered toward the picture, and then away.

“No,” she said.

 _Lying._ She was definitely lying. Why would she lie?

Dexter studied her face, and then the photo. Velina looked like the little girl. Same eyes, same hair, same bone structure. Too young to be the mother. She could be Carla’s sister, or aunt.

Or she could look just like Carla would have, if she had been allowed to grow up.

“You’re lying. How do you know this girl? Why do you look like her? I have her DNA, I can test for a match. What is she to you?”

The woman’s expression shifted and tightened, and the eyes grew cruel. Suddenly, Dexter had no trouble seeing her as alien.

“She was breakfast,” said the woman, and then she smiled.

Inside, Dexter felt the satisfying *click* of a final lock being opened. The code had been fulfilled; the Dark Passenger could be released. Power blossomed, a warmth uncoiling from his center, giving him strength, making his blood sing, making him feel almost alive. Oh this, this is what had been missing during the hunt. The lack of clarity regarding his target had damped his reactions, made him half-blind. But now he could see his path clearly.

He pulled off his ski mask. “And now you’re my meat,” he said, and smiled back.

He walked back to the small table and carefully placed Carla’s picture there. Then he ran his fingers lightly along the handles of the knives laid out so precisely in a row. He paused for a moment on his favorite hunting knife, and then continued on, finally stopping on a ten-inch carving knife. He picked it up and examined the edge.

“Let’s try this again. What is your name? Your _real_ name.”

“Come closer, and I’ll whisper it in your ear,” she said.

Carla’s hollowed out body flashed in Dexter’s memory. It wouldn’t do to underestimate this creature. He circled around her at a prudent distance and then quickly came up from behind, placing the edge of the knife lightly on her external carotid artery. She started to turn her head and he pressed the knife a little harder.

“ _ **Face forward.**_ ****What. Is. Your. Name.”

“Why do you wish to know? It won’t mean anything to you.”

“I like to know the names of the people I kill,” he said. She wouldn’t believe it yet, that he would actually kill her. They almost never did.

“Tephiat Val, of the family Rthot,” she said. “Although they have probably expunged me by now.”

“Why did you kill Carla Sanchez, Tephiat Val?” he asked.

“Because I was hungry,” she said, in a reasonable tone.

“But why her? Why kill a little girl? There are two national parks, right outside of Miami, with plenty of game. And a slaughter house that throws out more offal than you could ever eat. Why kill a little girl, with her whole life in front of her?”

“Now you sound like my family. Feasting on dumb animals when there’s a whole other level to experience assimilating a sentient being. When we feast, we absorb more than just the entrails, we get the memories, the emotions. That girl gave me much more than the code to unlock this form, she gave me her _soul_.”

Dexter slashed the knife across her right cheek, leaving a thin red line. She hissed at the unexpected pain A fringe of blood began dripping from the mark. She started to turn her head, but faced forward again at his sharp command.

Dexter placed the tip of the knife in the trickle of blood, letting it pool, and then pulled out a glass slide from his pocket. He tapped the knife against the slide until a good sized drop was transferred. Placing the knife within easy reach on the long table, he put the cover on the slide, compressing the blood into a neat circle, and held it up to the light. Perfect. He slipped it into his pocket.

Now to transfer her to the table. Probably should sedate her again, no sense taking stupid risks. He thought of the Doctor, still taped to a chair and locked in the closet. That was a complication that he’d have to deal with later.

There was a high-pitched whirring sound that Dexter recognized from Rita’s laundry room, and the closet door opened behind the plastic sheet. Another whirring, and the Doctor swept his blue-tipped probe up and down. The plastic sheet parted to allow him to enter the room..

Correction. The Doctor was complication he’d have to deal with now.

The Doctor did a quick survey of the room, taking in the plastic, the tables, the knives, and the bound prisoner. He frowned at the blood trickling down her cheek. Finally he focused on Dexter.

Dexter spoke first. “Hello, Doctor. I’m sorry about having to drug you. I was afraid you were manipulating me into harming an innocent person.”

The Doctor looked again at the bloodied prisoner. “You have no such worries now, I see.”

“No. She made a confession. Tephiat Val, of the family Rthot, although I take it they don’t agree with her dietary preferences. She didn’t have to kill Carla, but she did anyway. She wanted her soul.” Dexter’s mild tone twisted into disgust at that last sentence.

“I know. I heard. What will you do now?”

Dexter smiled. His true smile, not the friendly mask he usually presented. No pretences here, not in this room. The Dark Passenger was loose now, and would not be easily driven from its rightful prey.

“I’m going to strap her to this table, plunge a knife into her heart, and then chop her up into small pieces.”

Now it was the Doctor’s turn to drop the mask, and the expression on his face made Dexter’s heart pound in wonder. It reminded him of the sky, hours before Hurricane Andrew hit. Dexter was running around helping Harry’s neighbors secure their houses, but he had stopped for a full fifteen minutes to stare at the sky. It had an unearthly greenish cast, with terrible dark clouds on the horizon. The wind was just starting to blow in earnest, but he could still sense its power.

Now the power of the Doctor’s gaze swept through him, and Dexter realized that his heart was pounding with _fear_ , he was actually feeling fear. Oh how marvelous, the intense reality of that feeling. It made him feel truly _alive_ , an experience Dexter usually only had the moment his blade took another person’s life.

“I can’t let you do that, Dexter.”

“What would you do with her then?”

“I would give her a chance.”

“A **_chance_** __? You mean the way she gave Carla Sanchez a chance?” Dexter’s fear transmuted into rage. How dare this Doctor talk of giving second chances when the eviscerated body of a child had been left out like so much trash?

“Listen, if you kill her now, it will make you no better than she is. You can choose to be the better person.” The Doctor spoke with earnest passion, and once again Dexter felt the force of his personality. And once again it left him unmoved.

“Oh Doctor, believe me, I have no illusions about what kind of person I am. But sometimes you need a monster to stop a monster.”

He couldn’t kill the Doctor. It wouldn’t fit the code. But he couldn’t let the Doctor stop him either. His hand reached for the side pocket containing the case with the remaining syringes.

Suddenly the Doctor moved across the room, and grabbed for Dexter’s hand. But Dexter was faster and stronger than he looked, and Harry had drilled him in hand-to-hand combat. He broke the hold and then grabbed the Doctor’s arm, twisting it and locking the elbow and then shoving the Doctor against the wall.

The Doctor was surprisingly strong as well, but Dexter had the better leverage and was able to hold the Doctor in place while leaning his arm across the Doctor’s throat, applying careful pressure, planning to render him unconscious without too much damage. The Doctor lifted his free hand to Dexter’s face and Dexter tilted his head back, anticipating an eye gouge. But the Doctor just placed his fingertips to Dexter’s forehead and cheek.

“Dexter, if you can hear me in there, it’s going to be okay,”

Oh, but it was not okay, because there was something in his head, pushing through his thoughts, invading his mind, oh get it out, please. He tried to fight back, tried to see what was attacking him, and suddenly he was falling, falling through space, because this creature held the universe in its mind, every star and every planet, everything that was or could be, and Dexter was nothing, he was an ant next to this, less than an ant. . .

Then the invader touched the stubborn core of Dexter’s self, and Dexter gathered his strongest memory and projected it out, like a shield, like a weapon.

 _A young woman, kneeling in the dim light filtering through gaps in the cargo container._

 _“Please, not in front of my baby. **Not in front of my baby.** ”_

 _The roar of a chain saw, and a dark figure stepped forward._

 _The young woman turned to look at Dexter, trying to smile._

 _“Close your eyes, Dexter. Mommy loves you. Now close your eyes.”_

 _So he closed his eyes, because he was a good boy. The chain saw roared louder, and his mommy was screaming. Dexter opened his eyes, he couldn’t help it, sorry mommy. He cried for her. But the only answer was a spray of blood and the chainsaw roared on and on._

 _Now the blood was traveling across the floor and there were other people screaming but Dexter just wanted his mommy, he called for his mommy. Still the only answer was more blood, covering the floor of the cargo container, an inch thick now, lapping around Dexter._

 _Then the bad men left, closing the door. Dexter crawled forward to look at his mommy’s face. He knew she wasn’t going to wake up. Even at age three, he knew that no one could wake up from that, but he just wanted to see her. Her hair had fallen across part of her face and he wanted to touch it. He loved stroking her hair when she held him, it was so soft. But his hands were covered with blood and he didn’t want blood on her hair, the only place he could see without any blood, so he held his hands in his lap and waited._

 _It was days before they found him, in the dark. The smell of blood had seeped deep into him. Something inside had broken, and something new was born._

And suddenly Dexter was alone in his head once more. He staggered away from the Doctor, reaching out a hand to try to steady himself against the wall, and then just slid down, finally sitting with his back against the wall, knees drawn up.

The Doctor looked down at him in astonishment. “You’re _human_!”

“You’re not,” replied Dexter.

The Doctor squatted down next to Dexter. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I thought an alien intelligence had invaded you. I was trying to help.”

Dexter pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Yeah, well, from now on, stay out of my head. Please.”

It would be simpler, Dexter knew, if his Dark Passenger were an alien, or a demon. But he knew better. He had always known. The Dark Passenger was him, all the emotions and thoughts and urges he couldn’t ordinarily let out, but also couldn’t keep bottled up forever.

“That woman,” said the Doctor tentatively. “She was really your mother?”

Rage blossomed full-grown, giving Dexter the strength to quickly stand up. “I _said_ stay out of my head!”

The Doctor stood up as well. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” He ran his hand distractedly through his hair, leaving it looking even wilder. He looked over the prisoner, who was watching them carefully through narrowed eyes. The blood from the slice had dried on her cheek, like a decorative tattoo.

The Doctor sighed. “I still can’t let you kill her, Dexter.”

“And I still can’t let you set her loose to kill another child, Doctor,” said Dexter, resigned. He had no illusions about his ability to stop the Doctor. This creature could snap his mind like a twig if he wanted. But Dexter still couldn’t just step aside.

The Doctor gave Dexter an exasperated look. “I wasn’t going to just chuck her out on the streets of Miami.”

He turned to the prisoner. “Tephiat Val, of the family Rthot, you have intentionally killed and devoured a sentient child on a Level Five planet, in clear violation of the Shadow Proclamation. I offer you one chance. Surrender to me, and I will protect you from this human, and take you into exile on a planet uninhabited by sentient life. You may live out the rest of your days there in peace, unable to harm another person.”

The Doctor raised an inquiring eyebrow at Dexter. Dexter gave the tiniest of nods. Not his first choice, but one he could live with. Sort of like when the police captured criminals before he could. Assuming of course the police could hang on to them — more than half of Dexter’s kills were felons who had wiggled out of the justice system.

Tephiat Val gave them both a crooked smile. “I will gladly accept your gallant offer, Doctor. It would be a pleasure to leave this miserable rock in any case.”

“Then may I have your parole?” asked the Doctor.

“I swear, by the blood of my ancestors and by the breath of my progeny, I will peacefully accompanying you away from this planet, never to return.”

“Very well,” said the Doctor, pulling out his blue tipped probe and stepping forward. Dexter tensed, knowing instinctively that the Doctor was getting too close to the other alien, that he was within her striking zone. But before he could say anything, the Doctor activated his probe and swept it up and down, parting the restraints.

Tephiat Val quickly stood, and opened her mouth wide, wider than any human could open it. A fringe of a hundred thin pale tentacles spilled out, waving around like a sea anemone. In the center was a four-sided beaklike structure, which opened to reveal a long tongue. It reached out towards the Doctor, moving like a snake.

It seemed like a bad idea to let it touch the Doctor. Dexter looked around for a weapon. His tools were still on the small table, on the other side of the long table, out of reach. The knife he’d left on the long table was gone.

The Doctor knelt, evading the questing tongue, and stabbed upward with the missing knife, under the rib cage and straight into the heart. Dexter couldn’t have done it better. The creature screamed in pain and the Doctor danced back, leaving the knife behind.

“No second chances,” he said quietly.

Tephiat Val writhed around for a moment, and then began to collapse, flesh melting into a gelatinous amber goo. Then the goo itself started to break apart, leaving nothing but Dexter’s best carving knife sitting in a pile of orange-yellow dust.

Dexter just stared at it blankly for a moment. “Well, at least that takes care of disposing of the body.”  



	6. Chapter 6

“Is it toxic?” asked Dexter. The orange-yellow dust pile previously known as Tephiat Val, of the family Rthot, was very unnatural looking.

The Doctor waved the blue-tipped probe at it. “Well, it looks to be safe enough, but just to make sure, I should probably dispose of it off-world in a supernova or something.” He stared at the pile as if expecting it to jump up and follow him back to the TARDIS.

Dexter remembered what Captain Magambo had said about the Doctor leaving messes behind. He must not be used to doing his own clean-up work. Well, that was something Dexter had plenty of experience in. He moved the chair and table off of the sheet of plastic that held the dust and then went to each corner, carefully folding the sheet further and further in.

He gave a moment’s thought to retrieving his knife and cleaning it off, but really, it wasn’t worth the risk. What if the orange dust had alien spoor or something? Instead he just bundled it into the center and stuffed the whole thing into a heavy-duty garbage bag.

“Here you go, Doctor,” he said, setting the bag down beside the man. Or whatever he was. Dexter really didn’t want to think about that, because it reminded him of how it felt to have the Doctor in his head.

The Doctor just watched him, not saying a word. Dexter didn’t want to think about that either.

Instead he folded away the remaining plastic sheets, and placed them in the bag with the knives and Carla Sanchez's picture. He put the case with the remaining syringes in the interior pocket of the bag. Then he zipped the whole thing closed. Looked around the room one more time, and then picked up his bag. Nothing more to clean up.

“Would you like a ride back to the TARDIS, Doctor?” he asked.

“You’re going to kill again,” said the Doctor. So much for hoping the Doctor would just disappear from his life.

“Yes, I am. And so are you.” Dexter had the grim satisfaction of seeing the Doctor flinch, just a bit.

“It’s not the same,” said the Doctor. “I only kill when I need to.”

“Me too,” said Dexter.

“I give them a chance,” said the Doctor.

“Do you think Tephiat Val really had a chance? You use words the way I use plastic sheets and duct tape. Different rituals, same results.”

“Except killing is not something I _enjoy_ ,” said the Doctor sadly.

“Now you’re lying. To me or to yourself, I don’t know which. But I saw your face the moment the knife hit home. Tell me, would you really have been happier if she had taken your offer of exile?”

“Yes! Dexter, I understand what you’re trying to say, but I’ve seen more death — I’ve caused more death - than you can imagine. I would be happy if I never saw another person to die.”

“But surely it’s better that if someone has to die, it’s the guilty, rather than the innocent?” asked Dexter.

“Better still to find a solution where everyone lives,” said the Doctor.

“We don’t all have blue boxes that travel in time and space. I know the name of every person I’ve killed, and each one was guilty of murder, and was likely to murder again if I didn’t stop them. I am _very_ careful. After all, I didn’t just take your word about Tephiat Val, did I?” asked Dexter.

“And what happens when you run out of murderers to kill?”

“Well, given human nature I’m not too worried about that, but it doesn’t matter. As long as I’m alive, there’s always at least one murderer left.”

The Doctor looked alarmed. “What do you mean?”

Dexter sighed. “I mean, before I would deliberately hurt an innocent person I would stop myself. By force if necessary.”

“I just wish I knew how to help you, Dexter,” said the Doctor. "It's so tempting, to try to fix you."

“No! Stay out of my head. Just let me go,” said Dexter. “Let me find my own way.”

The Doctor stared at him a long moment, and then nodded. “Very well then. Tell Rita thank you again for the banana bread.”

“Don’t you want a ride back to the TARDIS?”

“Naw,” said the Doctor. “I could with a good walk.” He shouldered the trash bag and left without looking back.


	7. Chapter 7

The Doctor stood at the open doors of the TARDIS, watching a trash bag drift through space towards a supernova, near the edge of a collapsing galaxy. Oodsong filled his mind, and the trash bag seemed to tumble in time to its rhythm. Somewhere past the conflagaration was the shape of a woman that held the essence of the matron of a Family of Blood. She was still alive, of course, her wish for eternal life granted.

Dexter was wrong. The Doctor did not enjoy killing. But he did enjoy winning. It had been such a clever solution, to hide as a human in 1913, until the Family had burned through their precious few months of life in a fruitless search for him. Their choice. When it went so horribly wrong, his wrath had been terrible. By any objective measure, the Family’s deeds were not as bad as those of others he had forgiven. But what he could not forgive was the devastating pain in Joan Redfern’s eyes, or the way that bold, brave Martha flinched away from his gaze for months afterward. Or the memory of a good man named John Smith, pleading for his life.

This regeneration, more than any of his previous ones, did not allow second chances. The Doctor clenched his fighting hand, the hand that held the knife that stopped Tephiat Val. He had given her a chance. He always gave his enemies a chance. They all had free will; it wasn’t his fault they failed to listen to his warning. Most of the time, he didn’t even strike a blow. They walked right into their fate.

Different rituals, same result.

Was it the right thing to let Dexter go? He seldom interfered with human on human violence, but Dexter seemed a different category altogether. His mind had seemed so neat and tidy, compared to the other human minds the Doctor had touched. Except for the large shadow that he had assumed was an alien presence. It had a web of sturdy threads connecting it to the rest of Dexter’s mind, and the Doctor shuddered to think how close he’d been to snapping them, trying to thrust out the alien.

But the shadow was Dexter’s mind, and the threads were just symbols of the relationships that kept him sane. Or at least functional. Rita, the children, his sister Debra, his other co-workers, they were all woven into the pattern. And threaded throughout, Doctor saw Dexter’s father Harry, and the code he had taught his son. A terrible code to teach a child, but it had been done with love. Which made it even more terrible.

What was the alternative to letting Dexter go? Fixing him? Oh, that had been so tempting — too tempting. Once he started tinkering with another person’s brain, then he’d really crossed the line. (Donna! Shh - that was different.) He may as well have taken the Krillitanes up on their offer to remake the universe. A person’s mind, the universe; same thing, the only difference was the scale.

He couldn’t just report Dexter to the police — nothing could be proven, and if he just called in some favors from UNIT, then that would’ve been a different sort of abuse of power. He wasn’t about to just follow Dexter around, waiting for him to try and kill again. And he couldn’t strike him down in cold blood; that would make him just as bad as the man he was trying to stop.

Different rituals.

The only other alternative would be to take Dexter with him. Unlike Tephiat Val, Dexter couldn’t just be plunked down on an uninhabited planet — he didn’t have the survival skills. But he could travel with the Doctor.

Except that Dexter would make a terrible traveling companion. Not because he was a sociopathic killer; after all, the Doctor had invited The Master on board. But what the Doctor needed was someone to bounce ideas off of, and ideas didn’t bounce off Dexter, they sank. The man seemed quite bright for a human, but he was like a black hole, drawing everything in, absorbing information, but offering nothing back.

Nothing except bananas. Bananas were good. Were bananas enough to base an invitation on? Maybe, just maybe, if he took Dexter on a trip or two, showed him something more than killing and death, he could figure a way to fix him. Or rather, to help him.

Maybe he should try inviting someone on board for some reason besides loneliness. (And maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so much if something went wrong.)

The TARDIS materialized next to the stairway to Dexter’s second story garden apartment. It was a nice location, right near the water, and the Doctor remembered Dexter talking to the little girl about sailing.

The Doctor soon spotted Dexter on the monitor and popped out.

“Dexter! Glad I found you. I wanted to see how you were.”

“About the same as I was twenty minutes ago, except more tired.” Dexter did not look happy to see him.

“Ah, sorry about that. It’s been a bit longer for me. Time travel, you know. Gave me time to think, and I realized I left things in sort of a muddle. Hard thing for me to admit, I never look back. But then I also never barge into someone’s mind uninvited. I figured I should keep an eye on you for a few days.”

“Doctor, I really don’t want you hanging around me. It would make it hard to work, for one thing. No offense.”

“None taken. Frankly I’ve had enough of the Miami Police Department for a while. No, what I was thinking was that we could take a little trip. I could show you a bit of the wonders of the universe. It’s not all about killing monsters, you know. There are good things out there, too.” The Doctor gave him his most hopeful smile.

“I don’t have to travel the universe to know that. I have Rita and the kids. She’s probably still waiting up for me right now. And I don’t want to keep her waiting any longer.”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of time travel. I can take you to wherever you want, for as long as you want, and have you back in five minutes.”

“Wherever I want?” asked Dexter.

Ah, there was a hint of excitement. Just a glimpse of wonder about the possibilities. There might be something to build on.

“Any place, any time. Your choice.”

Dexter hesitated. “Well. . .I’ve always wanted to see Paris.”

“Paris! La Ville Lumière! One of my favorite cities. When do you want to go? I’m fond of 1899. We can go see the Eiffel Tower being built for the Universal Exposition! Well, they call it the Universal Exposition but it’s really just Earth. Still, it’s fun to visit. Or we could. . .”

“Present day. I want to go to Paris today,” said Dexter firmly.

“Really? Isn’t that a bit, well, boring?” Right in the middle of tourist season, too.

“You said it’s my choice. And I prefer to go someplace I could find my way home from if I have to.”

“Well, I hardly ever leave people stranded, but I see your point. Well then, ¡vámanos! ”

“Let me put my stuff away and change clothes. I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for any answer, Dexter hurried up the stairs to his apartment.

Luckily, before the Doctor got too bored, Dexter was back, wearing dark trousers and a dark open-collared shirt. The Doctor approved. Much more appropriate for Paris.

“All set then? Welcome aboard!” It was only a short hop across the pond, but Dexter seemed uneasy during the materialization sequence. Hmm, not a good sign.

“Paris, France. Present day. As requested.” The Doctor had showed off a bit, and parked the TARDIS right under the Eiffel Tower. Dexter opened the doors and stepped out to look around.

“Impressive, Doctor. But why isn’t anyone surprised to see us?”

The TARDIS had set down mid-morning, and the area was filled with tourists, who walked by the two men and the blue box without a glance.

 

“Perception filter. Okay, where to first? Musée D’Orsay is a favorite of mine. Or we could go to a café, I’m sure they must still have cafés in this time period. Or maybe. . .” The Doctor strode off into the crowd, licked a finger and held it in the air, and turned and walked off in another direction. Dexter follows a step behind.

“Actually, Doctor, could I just explore on my own for a while? It’s been a strange day, and I could do with some time to myself.”

“Well, that’s not the way it works. In fact, I kind of have rule about it, not wandering off, that is. Not that anyone pays attention, but still. On the other hand, you’re not likely to get into much trouble in your own century in Paris. Oo, I didn’t just say that out loud, did I? Well at least I didn’t say ‘nothing could possibly go wrong.’ Except for just then, but that doesn’t really count. . .”

“Okay, let’s meet back at the TARDIS about 10:00 pm,” said Dexter.

“. . .Anyway, I think we should stick together for now. Until you get your bearings. Travel by TARDIS can be disorienting. Wait, what was that?”

The Doctor spun around and scanned the crowd. Dexter was nowhere to be seen.

Well, that must be a new record for breaking the “no wandering off” rule.

The Doctor decided not to try looking for Dexter. He wasn’t really in the mood for hitting all the tourist attractions anyway. Instead he spent the day exploring the neighborhoods in the sixième arrondissment. He played chess in the park with an old man (well, old for a human) who actually gave him a run for his money. He sat a neighborhood café and watched the people and felt the rhythm of life here. He bought a double dip mango and banana ice cream cone. Not a bad day at all.

When he returned to the TARDIS, he was happy to see Dexter waiting, leaning up against the blue box. Looked like the trip did him good. He seemed much happier now, more relaxed. He. . . He smelled like blood.

Just a whiff, but definitely blood.

“Dexter. You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.” The Doctor cursed himself. He thought that this code of Dexter’s would stop him from random murders. Dexter had said he wouldn’t deliberately kill an innocent, and the Doctor believed him. What was he going to do with the man now?

Dexter just stood silently, taking in the words, giving nothing.

“Who was it?” asked the Doctor.

Dexter considered a moment. “A woman named Lila West. She killed a colleague of mine — burned him alive. And then she kidnapped Rita’s kids and locked them in a burning building. I was lucky to get them out.”

The Doctor felt an odd sort of relief. Not random, at least. But this meant. . .

“You knew she was in Paris, didn’t you? When you told me you wanted to come here."

“Yes.”

“You used me. You used my TARDIS!”

“Yes.” And that was all. No apology, no rationalization. Just a look of interest, as he waited for the Doctor’s judgment.

The Doctor felt his rage deflate. He just felt tired. His fault, it was his own fault. He knew what Dexter was and he took him on anyway. Like bringing a rattlesnake on board - he had no cause to cry when it bit him.

“Get in.”

Dexter stepped into the control room and winced. “She’s not happy with me.”

The Doctor didn’t feel compelled to comment on the obvious. Luckily it was a short trip.

“Out,” he said, as soon as they landed.

“Thank you, Doctor. For what you tried to do for me. Here, this belongs to you.” Something glinted in his hand.

The Doctor took it. It was a blood slide.

“It’s a drop of Tephiat Val’s blood. All that’s left of her now. It’s important to remember those we kill.” Dexter opened the door and stepped out before the Doctor could protest.

The Doctor stared at the drop of blood, listening to Oodsong. What a gruesome souvenir. One he could neither comfortably throw away or keep. Remember those we kill? The Doctor couldn’t forget. Although he was well past knowing all their names. He was lucky he knew the planets.

The Oodsong changed in pitch, calling him more urgently. Really, what was holding him back now? It was time, past time that he answered that call.

Just as soon as he found that banana daiquiri.

~The End~


End file.
